II

The indolent Claudia had already reigned three years in the most profound tranquillity; and the year 2127 was beginning also to roll placidly away, when early in its spring the peace of the kingdom was interrupted, and the Council of the Queen thrown into most distressing consternation by the intelligence that Roderick, King of Ireland, had landed in Wales, at the head of an invading army, and that the malcontents from every part of the kingdom were flocking to his standard.

The crisis was alarming. The pacific reign of the late Queen, and inertness of the present one, had occasioned the standing army of England to be a splendid toy, kept rather for show than use; and universal education had made its component parts reasoning pedants, rather than active agents. It was, indeed, no uncommon occurrence to see a regiment thrown into confusion on a review day, in consequence of the orders of the general not exactly coinciding with the notions entertained of military tactics by the privates, who, whilst arguing the point, quite forgot what they had been ordered to perform. Little could reasonably be expected from an army thus constituted, but the native spirit of Englishmen, and their hatred of foreigners, rose triumphant over every obstacle; and the soldiers unanimously professed themselves ready to obey the orders of the council, and to die in defence of their Queen and government if necessary.

Unfortunately, however, the Council were in no condition to give orders. This worthy and sapient body had hitherto contrived to manage their affairs very comfortably, by referring in all cases of doubt and difficulty to decisions made in the reign of the late Queen; but this case was quite unprecedented, and the illustrious lawgivers were consequently completely at a loss as to what was best to be done. Meanwhile the enemy, who had no such scruples to contend with, entered the suburbs of London, and attacking the Queen’s palace in Hammersmith Street, upon the banks of the Thames, would inevitably have taken her Majesty prisoner, had not this fatal outrage been prevented by the courage and activity of Edmund Montagu, a captain in the Queen’s body guard, who had obtained his commission through the interest of the Queen’s great uncle, the old Duke of Cornwall, only a short time previously.

This youthful hero luckily had command of the guard at the time of the enemy’s attack, and by his decision and presence of mind, he succeeded in animating his soldiers to defend the post committed to their charge, till a body of regular troops under the Duke of Exeter, a veteran officer of the late Queen, came to their relief, and compelled the invaders to retreat.

The Duke of Exeter was a good soldier, and a sensible man. He saw the danger of his country, and like another Washington, left his beloved retirement to save it from destruction. The counsellors of the Queen gladly submitted to his dictation. They felt their own weakness, and cheerfully gave up the reins of government to hands better qualified to guide them. The Queen was equally glad to escape all responsibility; and the Duke of Exeter, appointing young Montagu, with whose conduct he had been much pleased, second in command, soon, by a succession of vigorous and consistent measures, drove the enemy from the kingdom: their retreat indeed being hastened by the news Roderick received of an insurrection having broken out in Dublin during his absence.

Whilst these intestine commotions were agitating England, the Emperors of Greece and Germany, who had long envied the prosperity of “the little seagirt isle,” took the opportunity of declaring war against it; and Claudia only found herself freed from domestic foes, to contend with foreign ones. Her army, however, encouraged by success, professed themselves ready to encounter any enemy, and they set off for Germany, in high spirits under the command of General Montagu; the Duke of Exeter’s age and infirmities making him decline leaving England.

The youthful general was the son of a baronet in the West of England, and rapid as his promotion had been at court, it was by no means greater than he deserved. His face and figure were such as the imagination delights to picture as a hero of antiquity; and his character accorded well with the majestic graces of his person. Haughty and commanding in his temper⁠—ambition was his God, and the love of glory his strongest passion; yet his very pride had a nobleness in it, and his soldiers loved though they feared him.

Very different was the character of his younger brother Edric, whose romantic disposition and contemplative turn of mind often excited the ridicule of his friends. As usual, in similar cases, the persecution he endured only wedded him more firmly to his peculiar opinions, and determined him to sustain them with the constancy of a martyr, whilst he secluded himself from society, and despised the opinion of the world, because he found it was against him; supposing himself capable of resisting every species of temptation, simply because, as yet, he had met with nothing adequate to tempt him. Older and more experienced persons have made the same mistake.

Perhaps the striking difference perceptible in the character of these young men, might be occasioned more by education than nature. Until the period of Edmund’s obtaining his commission, they had both resided entirely at the country seat of their father, Sir Ambrose, where the care of their instruction was confided to Dr. Entwerfen, a German enthusiast, whom an unlucky propensity for trying experiments had banished from his native land. This philosopher, however, was unfortunately better skilled in the knowledge of the sciences, than in that of the human heart; and the lofty spirit of Edmund, despising his control, soon sought a more congenial companion in Father Morris, confessor to the Duke of Cornwall, who resided in the neighbourhood; and who, having been a warrior in his youth, was well calculated to sympathise with the feelings of a young aspirant for military glory.

The confessor was an intelligent, well informed man, and feeling flattered by the fondness Edmund showed for his society, he devoted all his leisure hours to the instruction of his young friend, leaving Dr. Entwerfen to occupy himself entirely with Edric, whose disposition accorded better with his own. Sir Ambrose was well satisfied with the change; Edmund was always his favourite son, and possessing the happy privilege of favourites, found no difficulty in persuading his father that whatever he preferred, was the best and most prudent plan that could possibly have been adopted. He thus easily contrived in due time to get permission to enter the army, and being naturally ardent and enterprising, success had hitherto attended all his efforts.

Country gentlemen have always been allowed to form a genus perfectly distinct from every other class of the community; there being something in the mere circumstance of a man’s living entirely upon his own estate, which never fails to produce a peculiar effect upon the mind. An English ’Squire is indeed almost a petty monarch: surrounded by his tenants and dependants, he rarely, except upon occasions of ceremony, meets with any superior, or even equal to himself; and he becomes the sun of his own system, around whom the doctor, the parson, and the lawyer of his village, roll as attendant planets.

Notwithstanding all the changes that had taken place in the political, moral, and religious state of England, this caste remained the same; and Sir Ambrose was as warm in his feelings; as hasty in his temper, and as violent in his prejudices as any of his predecessors. He was nevertheless far superior to the generality of his class, and amongst innumerable other good qualities, was an indulgent master and an affectionate father. His foible⁠—for alas! where shall we find a character without one⁠—was a desire to show occasionally how implicitly he could be obeyed: though, in general, he was easy to a fault, and it was only when roused by opposition, that the natural obstinacy of his disposition displayed itself. Edmund’s military glory was flattering to his parental pride, and his eyes would glisten with delight at the bare mention of his darling’s name.

In common with most persons of his class, Sir Ambrose Montagu considered regularity as a cardinal virtue; and in his own habits, he was as undeviating and exact as the machinery which performed the principal domestic operations in his mansion. Every day after dinner at the same hour, he proceeded regularly to his library, where Abelard, an old butler, who had grown grey in his service, as regularly presented him with a splendid hookah, which he smoked with infinite satisfaction; whilst Davis, his steward, reported all that had occurred relative to the affairs of the farm during the day, and received orders for all that was to take place during the morrow.

One fine evening in June, 2127, Davis was not listened to with the accustomed interest; and the smoke of the hookah, instead of being gently puffed out with its usual air of calm enjoyment, rose rapidly in volumes, or sank entirely away, as Sir Ambrose appeared alternately excited by strong feeling, or lost in meditation. Parental affection occasioned this unwonted agitation; letters had been received from Edmund, announcing him to be upon the eve of battle with an army far superior to his own, and the impatience with which the doting father expected intelligence of the event, may be easier imagined than described. Still the force of habit prevailed, and the accustomed hour found him with his faithful attendants, Davis and Abelard, at their usual posts in the library.

The worthy baronet was above seventy; and his long white hair hung in waving curls upon his shoulders, as he now sat in his comfortable elastic armchair, leaning one elbow upon the table before him. His features had been very handsome, and his complexion still retained that look of health and clearness, which, in a green old age, is the sure indication of a well-spent life. His countenance, though intelligent, was unmarked by the traces of any stormy passions; the cares and troubles of life seemed to have passed gently over him, and content had smoothed the wrinkles age might have made upon his brow; whilst the tall thin figure of Mr. Davis, as he stood reverentially bending forward, his hat in his hand, and his whole demeanour expressing a singular mixture of preciseness and habitual respect, contrasted strongly with the dignified appearance of his master.

The windows of the library opened to the ground, and looked out upon a fine terrace, shaded by a verandah, supported by trellis-work, round which, twined roses mingled with vines. Below, stretched a smiling valley, beautifully wooded, and watered by a majestic river winding slowly along; now lost amidst the spreading foliage of the trees that hung over its banks, and then shining forth again in the light as a lake of liquid silver. Beyond, rose hills majestically towering to the skies, their clear outline now distinctly marked by the setting sun, as it slowly sank behind them, shedding its glowing tints of purple and gold upon their heathy sides; whilst some of its brilliant rays even penetrated through the leafy shade of the verandah, and danced like summer lightning upon the surface of a mirror of polished steel which hung directly in the face of Sir Ambrose.

“What a lovely evening!” exclaimed the worthy baronet, gazing with a delightful eye upon the rich landscape before him; “often as I have looked upon this scene, methinks every time I see it I discover some new beauty. How finely the golden tint the sun throws upon the tops of those trees, is relieved by the deep masses of shadow below! That was Edmund’s favourite grove, poor fellow!” and the anxious father sighed, as he puffed his hookah.

“It is a fine evening,” said Davis, bowing low, “and if your honour pleases, I think we had better get the steam-mowing apparatus in motion tomorrow. If the sun should be as hot tomorrow as it has been today, I am sure the hay will make without using the burning glass at all.”

“Do as you like, Davis,” returned his master, puffing the smoke violently from his pipe, “I leave it entirely to you.”

“And does not your honour think I had better give the barley a little rain? It will be all burnt up, if this weather should continue; and if your honour approve, it may be done immediately, for I saw a nice black heavy-looking cloud sailing by just now, and I can get the electrical machine out in five minutes to draw it down, if your honour thinks fit.”

“I have already told you I give you permission to do as you like, Davis,” returned the baronet, puffing out volumes of smoke from his hookah. “Inundate the fields if you will; you have my full permission to do whatever you please with them, so that you don’t trouble me any more about the matter.”

“But I would not wish to act without your honour’s full conviction,” resumed the persevering steward. “Your honour must be aware of the aridity of the soil, and of the impossibility that exists of a proper development of the incipient heads, unless they be supplied with an adequate quantity of moisture.”

“You are very unreasonable, Davis,” said Sir Ambrose; “most of your fraternity would be satisfied with being permitted to have their own way; but you⁠—”

“Excuse my interrupting your honour,” cried Davis, bowing profoundly; “but I cannot bear it to be thought that I was capable of persuading your honour to take any steps, your honour might not thoroughly approve. Now as to the germinization and ripening⁠—”

“My good fellow!” exclaimed Sir Ambrose, smiling at the energy with which Davis spoke⁠—his thin figure waving backwards and forwards in the sunshine, and his earnest wish to convince his master, almost depriving his voice of its usual solemn and sententious tone: “My mind is too much occupied to think of these things now, so I give you full and free liberty to burn, dry, or drown my fields, as you may think fit; empowering you to take all necessary steps, either to germinate or ripen corn upon any part of my estate whatever, only premising, that in future you never trouble me upon the subject; and so good night.”

This being spoken in a tone of voice Davis did not dare to disobey, he slowly retired, apparently as much annoyed at having his own way, as some people are at being contradicted; when suddenly a brilliant flash of light gleamed on the baronet’s polished mirror. “Ah! what was that?” exclaimed Sir Ambrose, starting up, and dashing his pipe upon the ground.

He gazed eagerly upon the mirror for a few seconds in breathless anxiety, bending forwards in a listening attitude, and not daring to stir, as though he feared the slightest movement might destroy the pleasing illusion. The flash was repeated again and again in rapid succession, whilst a peal of silver bells began to ring their rounds in liquid melody. “Thank God! thank God!” exclaimed the aged baronet, sinking upon his knees, and clasping his hands together, whilst the big tears rolled rapidly down his face, “My Edmund has conquered! my Edmund is safe!”

The faithful servants of Sir Ambrose followed the example of their master, and for some minutes the whole party appeared lost in silent thanksgivings; the silver bells still continuing their harmonious sweetness, though in softer and softer strains, till at last they gradually died away upon the ear. Sir Ambrose started from his knees as the melody ceased, and desiring Abelard to summon Edric and Father Morris, who was then with the youthful philosopher in his study, he rushed upon the terrace, followed by Davis, to examine a telegraph placed upon a mount at a little distance, so as to be seen from one end of it: the light and music just mentioned, being a signal always given when some important information was about to be transmitted.

The sun had now sunk behind the hills, and the shades of evening were rapidly closing in as the baronet, with straining eyes, watched the various movements of the machine. “One, two, and six!” said he; “yes, that signifies he has won the battle, and is safe. My heart told me so, when I saw the signal flash. My darling Edmund!⁠—two, four, and eight⁠—he has subdued the Germans, and taken the whole of the fine province of France. Six, six, and four⁠—alas! my failing eyes are too weak to see distinctly. Davis, look I implore you! The signal is changing before we have discovered its meaning! For mercy’s sake, look before it be too late! Alas! alas! I had forgotten your eyes are as feeble as mine own. Oh, Davis! where is Edric? Why is not he here to assist his poor old father at such a moment as this?”

But Edric was otherwise engaged. After the departure of Edmund for the continent, the attention of Father Morris had been directed to his brother, and the mind of Edric, which had long craved for stronger food than it could obtain from the good-natured Dr. Entwerfen, expanded rapidly beneath the culture bestowed upon it. He had long been fond of abstract studies and visionary speculations, but they now formed the only pleasure of his existence; and he pursued them with an eagerness which made all the ordinary affairs of life appear tasteless and insipid. An idea, suggested by Father Morris in one of their conferences, as to the possibility of reanimating a dead body, took forcible possession of his mind. His imagination became heated by long dwelling upon the same theme; and a strange, wild, undefinable craving to hold converse with a disembodied spirit haunted him incessantly. For some time he buried this feverish anxiety in his own breast, and tried in vain to subdue it; but it seemed to hang upon his steps, to present itself before him wherever he went, and, in short, to pursue him with the malignancy of a demon.

“What is the matter with you, Edric?” said Father Morris to his proselyte, the day we have already mentioned. “You are so changed, I scarcely know you, and your eyes have a wild expression, absolutely terrific.”

“I am, indeed, half mad,” returned Edric, with a melancholy smile; “and yet, perhaps, you will laugh when I tell you the reason of my uneasiness: to say truth, the conversation we had together the other day has occasioned it. You convinced me so clearly of the possibility of resuscitating a dead body, that since that moment I have been tormented by an earnest desire to communicate with one who has been an inhabitant of the tomb. I would fain know the secrets of the grave, and ascertain whether the spirit be chained after death to its earthly covering of clay, condemned till the day of final resurrection to hover over the rotting mass of corruption that once contained it; or whether the last agonies of death free it from its mortal ties, and leave it floating, free as air, in the bright regions of ethereal space?”

“You know my opinion,” said the priest.

“I do,” replied the pupil; “but forgive me if I add⁠—I do not feel satisfied with it: in fact, mine is not a character to be satisfied with building my faith upon that of any other man. I would see and judge for myself.”

“I do not blame you,” resumed Father Morris; “a reasonable being should believe nothing he cannot prove; and to remove your doubts, I would advise you to step into the adjoining churchyard, where you can try Dr. Entwerfen’s galvanic battery of fifty surgeon power, (which you must allow is surely enough to reanimate the dead,) upon a body which then⁠—”

“Hold! hold!” cried Edric, shuddering. “My blood freezes in my veins, at the thought of a churchyard:⁠—your words recall a horrible dream that I had last night, which, even now, dwells upon my mind, and resists all the efforts I can make to shake it off.”

“Tell it, then,” said the Confessor sternly; “for when the imagination is possessed by horrible fantasies, it is relieved by speaking of them to another person.”

“I thought,” said Edric, “that I was wandering in a thick gloomy wood, through which I had the utmost difficulty to make my way. The black trees, frowning in awful majesty above my head, twined together in masses, so as almost to obstruct my path. Suddenly, a fearful light flashed upon me, and I saw at my feet a horrid charnel house, where the dying mingled terrifically with the dead. The miserable living wretches turned and writhed with pain, striving in vain to escape from the mass of putrescence heaped upon them. I saw their eyeballs roll in agony⁠—I watched the distortion of their features, and, making a violent effort to relieve one who had almost crawled to my feet, I shrank back with horror as I found the arm I grasped soften to my touch, and a disgusting mass of corruption give way beneath my fingers!⁠—Shuddering I awoke⁠—a cold sweat hanging upon my brows, and every nerve thrilling with convulsive agony.”

“Mere visionary terrors,” said the father. “You have suffered your imagination to dwell upon one subject, till it is become morbid.

“Is it not strange,” continued Edric, apparently pursuing the current of his own thoughts, “that the mind should crave so earnestly what the body shudders at; and yet, how can a mass of mere matter, which we see sink into corruption the moment the spirit is withdrawn from it, shudder? How can it even feel? I can scarcely analyse my own sensations; but it appears to me that two separate and distinct spirits animate the mass of clay which composes the human frame. The one, the merely vital spark which gives it life and motion, and which we share in common with brutes, and even vegetables; and the other, the divine ethereal spirit, which we may properly term the soul, and which is a direct emanation from God himself, only bestowed upon man.”

“In my opinion,” said Father Morris, “the organs of thought, reflection, imagination, and reason, are material; and as long as the body remains uncorrupted all may be restored, provided circulation can be renewed: for that I think the principle essentially necessary to set the animal machine in motion.”

“I confess,” resumed Edric, “we all know that circulation and the action of the lungs are inseparably connected, and that if the latter be arrested, death must ensue. How frequently are apparently dead bodies recovered by friction, which produces circulation; and inflation of the lungs with air, which restores their action. If the idea be correct, that the soul leaves the body the instant what we call death takes place, how can these instances of resuscitation be accounted for? Think you that the soul can be recalled to the body after it has once quitted it? Or that it hovers over it in air, attached to it by invisible ligatures, ready to be drawn back to its former situation, when the body shall resume its vital functions? It cannot surely remain in a dormant state, and be reawakened with the body; for this would be inconsistent with the very idea of an incorporeal spirit.”

“If you could overcome your childish reluctance to trying an experiment upon a corpse,” said Father Morris, “your doubts would be set at rest. For if you could succeed in reanimating a dead body that had been long entombed, so that it might enjoy its reasoning faculties in full perfection, my opinion would be completely established.”

“But where shall I find a body, which has been dead a sufficient time to prevent the possibility of its being only in a trance, and which yet has not begun to decompose?⁠—For even if I could conquer the repugnance I feel at the thought of touching such a mass of cold mortality, as that presented in my dream, according to your own theory, the organs must be perfect, or the experiment will not be complete.”

“What think you of trying to operate upon a mummy? You know a chamber has been lately discovered in the great pyramid, which is supposed to be the real tomb of Cheops; and where, it is said, the mummies of that great king and the principal personages of his household, have been found in a state of wonderful preservation.”

“But mummies are so swathed up.”

“Not those of kings and princes. You know all travellers, both ancient and modern, who have seen them, agree, that they are wrapped merely in folds of red and white linen, every finger and even every toe distinct; thus, if you could succeed in resuscitating Cheops, you need not even touch the body; as the clothing in which it is wrapped, would not at all encumber its movements.”

“The idea is feasible, and, as you rightly say, if it can be put into execution, will set the matter at rest forever. I should also like to visit the pyramids, those celebrated monuments of antiquity, whose origin is lost in the obscurity of the darker ages, and which seem to have been spared by the devastating hand of Time, purposely to perplex the learned.”

Dr. Entwerfen had been present during the whole of this conversation, though he had been so busied with some philosophical experiments, that he had not joined in it; roused, however, by the word “pyramid,” he now started forward.

“You are right,” cried he, with enthusiasm, “they are, indeed, a mystery which it has puzzled ages to develop⁠—go to Egypt, and I will accompany you. I feel an inward voice call me to the spot. Yes, we will explore these monuments, and who can tell but that we may be the favoured mortals destined to raise the mystic veil which so long has covered them? We may be decreed to revive their mummies, and force them to reveal the secrets of their prison-house. It was Cheops raised the pyramids from the dust by science, and Cheops, by the force of science, shall be compelled to disclose their origin.”

“I am glad,” resumed Father Morris, “to find the opinions of Dr. Entwerfen coincide so exactly with my own, and that he will have the kindness to accompany your expedition. You will want a companion who can enter into your feelings, and participate in your hopes. My monastic vows chain me to this spot, or I would gladly lend my humble aid to accomplish so valuable a discovery.”

“Well, well, we can easily fancy that,” cried Dr. Entwerfen, impatiently; “but though you can’t go, we can: and⁠—and⁠—when shall we set off, Edric, dear?”

“Stay, stay!” replied Edric, smiling at the doctor’s impetuosity; “though I own I should like to visit Egypt, yet there are many things to be considered before such an expedition can be undertaken. I must obtain my father’s consent. I must⁠—”

Here a gentle tap at the door interrupted Edric’s argument; and made the doctor, whose nerves were rather susceptible, leap two or three yards in a fright:⁠—whilst Father Morris, with his usual air of calm composure, opened the door to the unwelcome intruder.

It was old Abelard the butler. Half ashamed of the unphilosophic terror he had evinced, the doctor felt glad to be able to hide his emotion under the appearance of anger, and demanded peevishly, what was the matter. “Have I not told you a hundred times,” continued he, “that I do not like to be interrupted at my studies! and that nothing is more disagreeable than to have one’s attention distracted, when it has been fixed upon an affair of importance!”

“I do not attempt to controvert the axiom you have just propounded,” returned Abelard, speaking in a slow precise manner, as though he weighed every syllable before he drawled it forth: “for undeniable facts do not admit of contradiction. However, as the message with which I stand charged at the present moment, relates to Master Edric and the reverend Father Morris, instead of yourself, I humbly opine, no blame can attach itself to me, on account of the unpremeditated interruption of which you allege me culpable.”

“And what have you to say to me?” demanded Edric.

“That the worthy gentleman, your respectable progenitor, requests you instantly to put in exercise your locomotive powers to join him on the terrace, to the end, that there your superior visual faculties may afford soulagement to the mental anxiety under which he at present labours, by aiding him to develop the intelligence conveyed to him by the telegraphic machine.”

“What!” exclaimed Edric, eagerly, and then, without waiting a reply, he darted forward, and in a few seconds was by the side of his father: whilst Father Morris followed with nearly equal expedition.

Abelard gazed after them with amazement: “There is something very astonishing,” said he, addressing Dr. Entwerfen, “in the effervescence of the animal spirits during youth. I labour under a complete acatalepsy upon the subject; I should think it must arise from the excessive elasticity of the nerves. Ideas strike⁠—” but here, happening unfortunately to look up, he too was struck to find Dr. Entwerfen had also vanished: and being unwilling to waste his eloquence upon the empty air, he departed, slowly and solemnly, however, according to his custom, to join the party assembled on the terrace.